Dark Rites

by Heather Graham

“Hi, I’m Vickie Preston. And this is Devin Lyle.”

  “Vickie, hi. I’ve seen you around—nice to meet you. Devin, nice to meet you, too. How can I help you?” she asked. “Our calendar is online, if you’d like to check it out.”

  “Actually, we’re here to find out if you happen to know anything about a friend who has disappeared. Alex Maple.”

  The girl’s face scrunched up for a minute. “Alex...yes! One of the best audience members we’ve had—ever, anywhere! Great guy. I saw him at the coffee shop by Faneuil Hall the last time we played there—night before last actually.”

  “Have you seen him since? Did he say anything to you about leaving town?” Vickie asked.

  “No, he told me he loved it when we did Fleetwood Mac music. That’s about the extent of our conversation that night,” Cathy said. “We have talked about other things. He is amazing. I’m from Athol, and I don’t begin to know any of the things he knows about my area of the state. Is he okay?”

  “I hope so,” Vickie said quietly.

  “Did you see him leave with anyone? Talk to anyone—meet up with anyone just outside of the shop?” Devin asked.

  “No. I’m so sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “What about your brother?” Vickie asked.

  “Why don’t we talk to him? He’s on his way out, too. We’re heading west today. We were here for a few months so we just did a short-term condo rental. We’re thinking about expanding—we’ve got a meeting with a wicked good drummer tonight. Anyway, come on in—oh. Here’s Ronnie. Men, you know. Whether you’re related to them or dating them, they just don’t seem to get the concept of time,” Cathy said, indicating her brother, who was now coming out the front door, dragging along a large suitcase.

  “Hey! I heard that. And women are notoriously slow!” he protested.

  He really was good-looking, Vickie thought. Light-haired, with very unique eyes. He had a good smile, too, both slightly apologetic and slightly mischievous.

  “Ron,” Cathy said, “this is...”

  She grimaced, clearly having already forgotten their names.

  “Victoria Preston and Devin Lyle,” Vickie said. “We have a friend who is missing. You have come to know him or, at the least, you’ve seen him often. Alex Maple.”

  “Alex, sure! I love Alex. I wish he came bottled. We’d be rich and famous. Have I seen you with Alex?” he asked Vickie.

  She nodded. “Alex is missing.”

  “We just saw him the night before last,” Ron said.

  “That’s the last time anyone has seen him,” Vickie said.

  “Is that really missing? Maybe he popped out of town. Maybe...hey, he seems to be on the straight and narrow, but you never know. Maybe the guy is just out on a bender or something.”

  “We’re looking into all possibilities,” Devin said. “We were hoping he might have said something to you or your sister. Or that you might have seen him with someone.”

  “I’m so sorry. I know he was there. He was supportive and enthusiastic, as always. But I didn’t see where he went, or if he met up with anyone.” He turned and shoved his bag into the minivan. “Sure wish we could help you. But...”

  Devin produced one of her cards. “If you think of anything, if you see him, if you can help us in any way, call me, please,” Devin said.

  Ron Dearborn looked at the card, and then at Devin.

  “FBI?” he said. “The FBI is looking for Alex—when he’s only been missing a day or so?”

  “Alex was attacked and left for dead,” Vickie reminded him.

  “But they caught that guy last night!” Ron said. “Offed him—or he offed himself.”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation,” Devin said.

  “Wow,” Ron Dearborn said.

  Cathy caught his arm. “We’ve got to get going. If there’s anything at all we think of, we’ll call.”

  “Sure. Of course,” Ron said. He glanced from Devin to Vickie. “I guess you have friends in high places. Friends besides Alex.”

  He looked intently at Vickie. “You’re like him, right? You’re one of those historians. A teacher?”

  “No. A writer.”

  “But smart, like Alex, right?”

  “I love history.”

  “We really have to go!” Cathy said.

  “And so do we,” Devin said. “Thank you for your time.”

  Ron turned to his sister. “Is that everything?” he asked her.

  Vickie and Devin turned away, heading back toward Tremont.

  “Well? Anything?” Devin asked Vickie.

  “No. I guess they’re just a pair of pleasant entertainers. They both know Alex, and like him.”

  “It’s true that under most circumstances people wouldn’t even be worried yet.”

  “I know,” Vickie said. “But I also know that something is very wrong.” She let out a sigh. “Do you think that they’re for real?” she asked. “Maybe they have different names, too. Maybe it was a massive conspiracy at the coffee shop. Or not a massive conspiracy—a small conspiracy. And the Dearborn brother and sis are in on it with Audrey Benson—who isn’t really Audrey Benson.”

  She was sure that Devin had to think that her ideas were both paranoid and pretty far-fetched.

  “There’s so much we don’t know,” Devin said. “I called an Uber—he’ll get us right up ahead on Tremont Street,” she added.

  They were heading into a bright and beautiful afternoon and the street was busy. All manner of people were about—couples wandering, groups chatting and some hurrying along as if they’d stayed out too late for lunch. She clutched Devin’s arm and pulled her to the side when a troop of tourists—all holding hands!—came through, something like a herd of creatures not about to be stopped.

  “Saved!” Devin said, laughing. Then she sobered. “Here’s the question. Does this guy—or woman!—really believe it’s possible to raise the devil? Or is it just some kind of ruse to gather followers together for some other end?”

  “What other end?” Vickie asked.

  “You never know,” Devin said.

  They turned the corner. As they did, a young redheaded woman, a handbag over her shoulder and a cup from a local coffee vendor in her hands, came rushing up to them.

  “Vickie? Victoria Preston?” she asked. The woman’s eyes seemed a bit unfocused and wild.

  Vickie frowned. “Why?”

  “Who are you?” Devin asked the young woman. “And why are you asking?”

  The woman didn’t answer. She suddenly hurled the contents of her cup at Vickie. Thick, warm liquid covered her front. The redhead turned and tore down the street, thrusting aside the busy walkers and disappearing into the crowd.

  “What the hell?” Devin demanded.

  The liquid was deep red.

  Blood.

  Luckily, it had missed Vickie’s eyes.

  “You all right?” Devin demanded.

  “Yes! I’m fine.”

  “I’m going after her,” Devin said, already running.

  “Well, what the hell, so am I!”

  * * *

  “Hey,” Barnes said, joining Griffin and Rocky. He walked in and perched on the desk and seemed to read something from their faces.

  “So, we didn’t just stop it all last night, huh? You know this because...?”

  “Right off the bat?” Griffin asked. “Well, Alex Maple disappeared...along with a waitress, a young woman who apparently lived in the Atlantic Ocean and was very corporeal despite the fact she died in 1958.”

  “Ah, come on,” Barnes said uneasily, “we’re not talking ghosts here.”

  “I said corporeal—no ghosts, just a stolen identity,” Griffin said. He was never sure what Barnes did and didn’t know about the Krewe
of Hunters, or what he suspected. He tended to be a man who was willing to take whatever help he could get to solve a case, but that didn’t mean he’d be open-minded about their skills.

  Information about Griffin’s unit was certainly out there in the news, if you knew where to look. They weren’t officially the Krewe of Hunters; it was a moniker they received because Adam Harrison had brought the first Krewe members—including Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins—together on a baffling case in New Orleans.

  They were considered an elite unit, and when they went out, it was usually on “special” assignment.

  Griffin continued. “Vickie and Devin sleuthed out that information. I got just about nothing from the college professors I spoke with.” He decided it wasn’t a good time to dwell on their inability to get answers.

  “I don’t get it—how did they get this information so quickly?” Barnes asked. “And how do we know this waitress is missing? Just a few hours missing? People have similar names. Numbers can be transposed in the wrong order.”

  “Barnes, she served Alex Maple on Saturday night. She also served Vickie and her friend Roxanne Greeley last night. She was only working at the shop a few weeks and she gave them a social security number that belonged to someone who died years ago.”

  “That is suspicious,” Barnes agreed grudgingly. “But as you said, this woman served Vickie and her friend last night. So, she didn’t disappear when Alex disappeared, right?”

  “I don’t believe anyone is seeing the full picture, Barnes,” Griffin said.

  “And you know that he’s right about this thing going deep,” Rocky added quietly.

  Barnes sighed fully. “We could still be off. I mean, it’s possible. Alex Maple is an adult. He doesn’t really owe anyone an explanation of his whereabouts.”

  “He is an adult who was attacked, who had been under protection—and who received a lot of media attention after the attack,” Griffin said.

  “Come on, Detective!” Rocky said. “There’s obviously something going on here.”

  Barnes protested. “Hey. I rushed things for you guys on the city level. We went into the guy’s home—and he’s definitely not there. But there’s still the possibility that he’s just gone. You come on—he’s one of those nerds—crazy academic types. He’s lost his phone—misplaced it. He’s just off.”

  “You don’t even believe that,” Griffin said.

  “Everyone wants Darryl Hillford to have been guilty of carrying out all of the assaults. The people of Boston want to walk the streets safely—they want the Satanist attacker to have been stopped,” Barnes said impatiently.

  “That’s natural. You know what? I watched a guy—in his twenties—take a suicide pill rather than surrender to me. You don’t think I want it to be over? Hell, we were headed back to Virginia before the attacks started, Barnes.”

  “I know, I know!” Barnes said, wincing. “I just...dammit! I want it to be over. I don’t like any of this. It’s frightening. It’s creepy. ‘Satan rules’...” Barnes shivered. “I’m a Boston cop. I’ve seen about everything. But I really don’t like this. Thing is, I go way back in this city, but the whole history thing—I don’t know what people like Vickie and Alex Maple know. I was never a historian, a professor or a writer. But you guys specialize in that kind of thing, right, Agent Rockwell? You’ve dealt with people who twist religion all around before, right?”

  “Yes,” Rocky said quietly. “I’ve dealt with it before.”

  “And this does extend beyond the city, I think,” Griffin said. “But it involves the city. Barnes, we do still need your help.”

  “Vickie and Devin are coming in soon. Vickie is going to work with a sketch artist. I need you to support us—I need the BPD as well as the FBI to get the pictures out there.”

  Barnes nodded. “I can work the city,” he said. “And you can do what you feel you need to do.”

  “We’ll be heading to check out the past in Fall River first,” Griffin said. “I’m going to be trying to find information from the 1800s and the 1970s, when the Ezekiel Martin quotation was used by other criminals.”

  “You can drive out and be back in a day,” Barnes told him. “And what about Jehovah?”

  “If we don’t have answers by the time we’re done in Fall River, we’ll start investigating the areas that are farther west in the state,” Griffin said.

  “So you’re leaving me with the city,” Barnes said.

  Griffin laughed softly. “Detective! If I weren’t completely aware of how competent you are, I might have fallen for that line.”

  “Still, wish you’d be here.”

  “You have other FBI support, and the Boston police are some of the finest in the country,” Griffin said.

  “Yeah, well, now I have to worry about you out in the suburbs,” Barnes told them. “May not be civilized!”

  “Half of ‘those guys’ out in the suburbs work in the city. The others are probably too smart to do so.”

  Barnes chuckled softly. “Once you head farther west? Used to be farming and manufacturing. Barre was huge on providing gunpowder for the Union during the Civil War. Learned that in a trivia game. Not that I think it will help you much now.”

  “Probably not, but knowledge never hurts,” Griffin told him.

  “Well, here’s something that will help you. I have a friend with the state police who lives out there in Barre. He’s friends with the local cops. Good guy—I’m sending his number, and I’ll text him so he expects your call. His name is Wendell Harper. He may be of help, at some point in this investigation.”

  “That’s great!” Griffin said. “Thanks.”

  “I can still hope that all this...that all this is nothing. I can still hope that you took down the Satanist Smasher yesterday,” Barnes said.

  “Satanist Smasher?” Rocky repeated.

  “So dubbed by the press,” Barnes told them gravely.

  “You’d have thought they could do better.”

  “Hey. Sadly, you can run out of good names for serial offenders.”

  * * *

  It might have been a great deal easier for Vickie and Devin if they hadn’t been on Tremont Street.

  The area was filled with pedestrian traffic—schoolchildren in groups, tour companies leading their clients, men and women here and there, together, solo, in pairs. Some leaped out of the way when they saw the women running toward them, and everyone turned to stare at Vickie.

  Devin was ahead of Vickie at first, but Vickie managed to catch up.

  She was the first to zig and then zag when her attacker turned onto Essex, and then onto the Boston Common. The young redheaded woman ran hard, and it was all that Vickie could do to keep up with her.

  The redhead hooked sideways and went streaking into the Central Burying Ground, leaping over old slate stones, tree roots and anything that seemed to be an obstruction.

  It was ridiculous! The girl must have been a college sprinter—certainly on a running team of some kind somewhere!

  Vickie got a glance at Devin, who was racing hard herself. Devin had made it through the rigors of training at the FBI Academy and even she was having trouble keeping up!

  And then, miraculously, while attempting one of her gazelle leaps over a crooked headstone, the redhead went down.

  Vickie managed to sidestep the stone.

  The redhead saw her. She reached into her pocket.

  “No!” Vickie cried, gasping for breath as she surged the final distance and threw herself down on the young woman. “No!”

  All she could picture was what had happened with Griffin.

  How he’d caught the young man...

  How he’d died in front of Griffin.

  Vickie caught the girl’s arm; she now had something in her hand she was trying to get to her mouth.
>
  “No, no, what is the matter with you! That is insane!” Vickie cried as she held the girl’s arm back.

  By then, Devin—panting and gasping for breath, as well—fell to her knees on the ground beside Vickie.

  “Stop her!” Vickie cried.

  Devin quickly saw the situation.

  The redhead, however, was strong, and had wrestled her hand close enough to her mouth.

  She dropped the pill in.

  “No!” Devin cried.

  “Her cheeks!” Vickie cried.

  Devin caught the girl’s jaw, forcing her mouth open. Much of a tiny pill remained on the redhead’s tongue; Vickie plucked it off, wondering how much of it had dissolved already. The fight had gone out of the girl.

  Suddenly, she began to buck and twist, going into convulsions.

  Devin was already on the phone, calling for an ambulance.

  “Keep her from hurting herself!” she told Vickie.

  Vickie did her best, throwing her weight back on the young woman, trying to stop her flailing limbs, trying to keep her airway clear, trying to keep her from biting her tongue. Devin put down her phone and held the girl’s head. Long minutes passed.

  As the med techs raced through the tombstones to reach them, the girl went motionless. Her skin was red, and she was so still.

  “Here, here, let me help you!” one of the EMTs said to Vickie.

  Vickie stared at him blankly, and then pointed.

  “It’s her... I think it was cyanide.”

  “You’re covered in blood!” the EMT said.

  “No, no, it’s just something thrown at me. I’m fine,” she said quickly.

  Vickie backed away, still on her knees, just staring at the redhead, watching as the emergency personnel went into rescue mode and listening as Devin explained what had happened—describing the pill, how quickly they had gotten it and how the redhead had reacted.

  “Vickie!” Devin said.

  Vickie looked up.

  “The bit of pill...you still have it?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  It was in her hand. She passed it over and someone took it, using a glove and quickly sealing it into a bag. Someone else rushed over, working some kind of cleaner or antibiotic over her hands. They did the same to Devin, who barely seemed to notice.